


A Willing Companion

by KeiylaD



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, Geralt is bi, Jaskier is bi, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, except that it kind of ended up with a plot, literally everyone is bi, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiylaD/pseuds/KeiylaD
Summary: Of course the witcher would spend their perfectly good coin to get a maiden in bed, but here Jaskier was -- a willing companion for no coin at all, thank you very much -- and it’s like he was bloody invisible, as always.Alternately titled in my google docs asGeralt x Jaskier fanfic because FUCK ME, if anyone can relate to that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 1329





	A Willing Companion

**Author's Note:**

> I had an itch and decided to scratch it. A first time, minor feelings, Geralt-started-it itch. This is completely based on the TV series as I've never played the games or read the books, so please forgive any mistakes in lore.
> 
> This is my first attempt ever writing anything even remotely smutty, so hopefully it's not horrible? Any comments and kudos welcome!

Fuck if Jaskier didn’t call this days ago. 

He’d said it. The universe had heard him. They’d been walking along the sorry excuse for a path - right, Roach and Geralt were walking, _Jaskier_ was tromping through the damn mud - and they’d finally gotten out of the trees enough that Jaskier could see the faint light of torches in the distance. 

“Ah, yes!” he’d exclaimed, waving his arms in the air. “A town! Somewhere for a warm meal and a real bed. Oh, maybe even a bath for a certain witcher-” he clapped his hand down on Geralt’s thigh, earning him a disgruntled huff “-who, I would like to say, seems to have become more of a Sod Brown Wolf.” 

Geralt had rolled his eyes, pushed Jaskier’s hand unceremoniously off of his leg, and nudged Roach to trot. Jaskier couldn’t keep up of course, which was _rude_. When he finally met them, at the edge of what seemed to be a very tall cliff, Geralt had already dismounted and gathered up his reins. To Jaskier’s dismay, the torches were very clearly on the other side of this ravine. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier had whined. “Geralt. I’m _starving_. I want real food, Geralt.” Moments later, a handful of dried venison smacked him in the face. 

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Jaskier had fussed with his hair, pulling bits of salt out of his bangs. “I’m serious, Geralt. Let this not be the time you decide a maiden in your bed needs your coin more than we need a good sleep.” 

And Geralt had said absolutely nothing, which meant, of course, that he heard every word.

Yep. Jaskier had fucking called it. 

“This is ridiculous!” Jaskier slammed his hand down on the counter with what he thought was a considerable amount of force, but it just bruised his palm. He grimaced, then covered it with a cough that fooled absolutely no one. The innkeeper waited expectantly, eyes wide, for the additional coin needed to reserve the last room at the inn. The man next to him didn’t move a muscle. “ _What_ did I say? ‘Let’s prioritize sleep this time.’ And where’s all your coin, Geralt?”

“There’s a perfectly good clearing to camp in,” Geralt grunted. 

“No, no, no. Nope. Absolutely not. A bed, Geralt.” 

The witcher fixed him with a glare. Unperturbed, Jaskier put his hand on his hip and stared right back. After an embarrassingly long time, during which Geralt’s eyes never once moved, Jaskier reached into his pocket for the two measley coins he’d managed to keep hold of since their last stop in a (sort of) civilized area. He dropped them on the counter and made his best, most dramatic annoyed noise.

“Right,” Jaskier huffed. “Upstairs with you, then.” He gestured wildly in the direction of the stairs. Geralt’s hulking form crossed in front of him and Jaskier followed, shooting a glance of woe toward the roomful of patrons. 

Two baths for the witcher, one bath for Jaskier, and a few songs later, they occupied a corner table in a warm tavern. Unsurprisingly, he’d earned them enough for dinner and beer. Jaskier could always pull out a few of his most well-known ballads, but he always seemed to earn more when Geralt accompanied him. Patrons still regarded the witcher warily, but seemed more than willing to ‘toss a coin’ when prompted. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Jaskier prompted. Geralt sat across from him, his skin at least mostly clean after his baths. He was dressed in his least grimy black shirt with his white hair pulled back. He was staring straight ahead, doing a magnificent job of _brooding_. He’d taken a couple of mouthfuls of Jaskier’s hard-earned dinner and hadn’t touched it since. 

“I’m full,” Geralt said. The bard scoffed. How in the hell could he be full? The man was giant. There were trees outside this tavern with thinner trunks than the width of one of Geralt’s arms. And he did more work in a day than most fools did in weeks. Not _this_ fool, mind you. Geralt might do more physical labor -- monster slaying and all that -- but Jaskier did the bulk of the emotional labor around here. 

“Suit yourself,” Jaskier shrugged, and dug in. 

An hour and a couple of beers later, Geralt was still at the corner table. Jaskier had migrated to the bar, where he was making circles with his fingers on the wrist of a really lovely woman, with hair like spun silk and eyes like the sea. 

“I’ll write a song about them,” the bard said enthusiastically, gesturing toward her eyes and ignoring her look of judgement. He reached over to tuck her hair behind her ear and caught sight of Geralt, out of the corner of his eye, smirking. Smirking at nothing, to be precise -- the witcher’s eyes were distant, but there was a smile on his lips. Jaskier blinked and tried to follow the witcher’s gaze. Instead, he caught sight of a rather grumpy-looking man entering the tavern. The man zeroed in on the bard, his eyes flicking from Jaskier to his golden-haired companion. 

Jaskier snatched his hand back and began jiggling his knee, an immense feeling of situational regret creeping into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping this wasn’t what it looked like, but when he opened them again the man was striding toward him with murder in his expression. 

“Right,” Jaskier said, his voice cracking. “Geralt.” He pushed away from the bar and backtracked quickly, holding his hands in front of his face. Clearing his throat, he called in his most frightened sing-song voice, “Geralt!”

Jaskier’s back slammed into the wall. He felt along it for an escape route and, finding none, promptly pushed off again, sidestepping quickly away from the threat, continuing his retreat. Just as the man reached out to grab Jaskier’s collar, a large hand clamped down on his assailant’s wrist. 

Geralt blocked the local’s way, tall and imposing. With no way through to his target, the man spat on the witcher, fury drowning his features. Geralt blinked, and his eyes hardened. He bared his teeth and grabbed the man’s other arm, twisting both until he winced with pain. The assailant struggled against the witcher’s grip, cursing at him.

“That’s my wife!” 

“Leave off!” Geralt roared, pressing the man’s arms easily to a position of greater pain with barely any pressure at all. The man yelled, but for all his fighting, it did no good. After a tense few moments, he went limp. Geralt released him, kicking him away from Jaskier. The bard brought his hand to his chest and sucked in air. 

“Whew,” he said lightly, still out of breath. “Right, I-”

“We’re leaving,” Geralt said. He gripped Jaskier firmly by the upper arm and manhandled the bard all the way out of the tavern. Jaskier tried to grab his beer on the way out and missed, spilling it all over his boots. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed loudly. Geralt let Jaskier go once they were outside. The air was much too cold. Jaskier rolled down his sleeves as he strode through the fairly quiet street. He didn’t quite remember which inn they’d rented, which was out of character for his normal caretaking personality, but luckily for him, Geralt did. 

“Is this your way of making up for spending your coin on a good fuck?” Jaskier teased as they walked up the stairs to the room. He skipped up the steps. “Let your friend make a fool of himself but save him before he’s made into too much of an idiot?” 

“You don’t need help making a fool of yourself,” Geralt replied, his voice amused, its texture like grinding stone. He opened the door. The hinges creaked in protest.

“But _you_ certainly do seem to need help saving your coin for the more important things!” Jaskier reached over his head and pulled his lute off over his shoulder, tossing it (with care) onto the fairly large bed. He lit one of the candles in the small glass lantern in the corner. “Honestly, I make _one_ request and end up having to sacrifice my coin anyway.”

“Hm,” was the only sound Geralt graced him with. Jaskier pouted. _Of course_ the witcher would spend their perfectly good coin to get a maiden in bed, but here Jaskier was -- a willing companion for no coin at all, thank you very much -- and it’s like he was bloody invisible, as always. 

Geralt was piling blankets from the cupboard onto the floor, flicking them open with ease and spreading them on the ground next to the bed. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked. 

“You said you wanted a bed.” Hmm. Well, he supposed he had, at that. He couldn’t begrudge the witcher on the one occasion he actually heeded Jaskier’s words. Geralt knelt, grunting in pain as he settled onto the wooden floorboards. 

“Are you hurt? I’ve some chamomile oil in my-”

“I’ll be fine.” Geralt began to roll up his sleeves. He laid his head back and shuffled around on the floor, trying to get comfortable with his large form. It was hard not to notice the way his muscles coiled and relaxed as he moved, rare as it was for the witcher to remain without his armor for any length of time. Jaskier gaped for a moment, then caught himself and removed his beer-soaked boots. The big ol’ grumpy witcher laid his large hands across his chest and sighed deeply. 

Jaskier burrowed under the blankets. Oh, the bed was so soft. It was everything he had wanted it to be, and never mind that he’d had to pay for it. Geralt had made up for the oversight by protecting his friend once again from his own dumbassness. Was that a word? Jaskier decided that it was, and that he’d use it in a song. He stared up at the ceiling, counting the holes in it with tiny movements of his fingers. 

He should go to sleep. Here he was, wrapped in poofy blankets and a warm bed much too big for what he needed, with his ever-grumpy witcher friend settled in front of the door. And yet, his mind wandered back to things he didn’t want to think about. Smooth muscles moving under scarred skin. The tiny smile on the witcher’s face in the tavern earlier. Piss off, he told the thoughts rattling around his brain. They did not. 

“Are you going to put out the light,” Geralt rumbled from the floor, “or do I have to get up?” 

Jaskier furrowed his brow. _Just turn the light out, you dolt._

“Why do you never smile at me, Geralt?” he blurted.

Shit. 

There was no sound from the floor. Jaskier stayed in his current position, legs splayed all weird. Maybe the witcher hadn’t heard him. Maybe he’d fallen magically asleep, very quickly, before Jaskier could do something else stupid. 

“What?” 

_Fuck._ Well, it was too late to take it back now. Jaskier was many things, but a coward was not one of them. They were having this conversation. 

“I know you smile at other people despite your big, scary reputation. You even smile at your whores - at least the few I’ve seen. But you never smile at me. I’m you friend, Geralt.”

“You’re drunk, Jaskier,” came the exasperated reply from the floor.

“I am not!” Jaskier was miffed. The light of the lantern danced on the ceiling. Thank gods for something else to concentrate on while he made himself into an even bigger idiot. But hey, it was a fair question. Geralt smiled at the fucking air, but never at his best friend and favorite bard. “Why do you never smile at me?”

“Maybe it’s because you never shut the fuck up.” 

“Mm. No, that’s not it.” Jaskier sat up abruptly and ran his fingers through his hair. Across the room, Geralt had turned his head around and was peering at him. The witcher’s hair shone silver, bits of it ruffled. Finding himself unable to stay still, the bard got up and paced around the room. Geralt sat up and rested a hand on his knee, looking entirely annoyed. The witcher stood and brushed off his pants. He strode across the room toward Jaskier. Jaskier pressed himself against the wall, watching the monster hunter carefully. Geralt simply stood quietly, watching the bard, his eyes reflecting the firelight. 

“Come here,” Geralt said, motioning toward Jaskier. His voice was low and gravely, yet it sounded somehow different. Well, this is it, Jaskier thought. He remembered their first _‘come here,’_ and how it had ended with a (well-deserved) punch to his gut. He cleared his throat and straightened his shirt, then stepped forward until he was just a foot or so away from the witcher. He set his chin and stared straight back at Geralt, ready for whatever retaliatory blow the witcher had in store for him. But rather than strike him, Geralt took a slow step closer. Jaskier felt the witcher’s warm breath on his face.

“You must hate me,” Jaskier said after a few moments, matter-of-factly, waving his hands wildly. “That’s the only explanation. Well if you truly despise my company so much, Geralt, why are you in here instead of in the damn forest? Or, alternately, paying more of my hard-earned coin for somewhere to stick your-”

And then Geralt closed the gap between them and closed his mouth around the bard’s, effectively silencing him. Jaskier felt Geralt’s lips press against his own. The touch, light as it was, sent a spark jolting down Jaskier’s spine. Jaskier parted his mouth to let out a gasp and Geralt kissed him again, this time grazing the bard’s tongue with his own. Another jolt went through him, this time straight down to his groin. As Geralt moved his hand gently to grip the back of Jaskier’s head and moved his lips once again to the bard’s, Jaskier’s eyes went wide. He pushed Geralt away, which was significantly easier than he expected it to be. 

“No, no, nononono, _hold on_ ,” Jaskier said, rationalizing. Geralt had just… kissed him. “Geralt. Is the fucking world playing a joke on me?” 

Geralt stared down at him, his mouth slightly open. He was wearing that ridiculous expression that he made when Jaskier said something stupid and Geralt wouldn’t dignify him with a response. Which, fine, sometimes the words that came out of his mouth probably should not have! But this? This was not one of those times.

“You can’t tell me it’s a coincidence that I’ve been dreaming about this and you’ve been completely uninterested, and now, out of the clear blue sky, you’re -- what are you even doing?” 

“You dreamt about this?” Geralt grumbled. 

“That’s not the point!” Jaskier protested. “You’re having a go at me!” The bard had spent sleepless nights lying next to the witcher, pushing away even the inkling of these kinds of thoughts. Geralt was grumpy and solitary and _absolutely not interested_ , based on every past experience the bard could call to mind. Jaskier flailed his arms about and then pointed as though he’d caught the witcher in one of his late night escapades. “Well, I won’t fall for it, Geralt. Try it on someone else! After as many times as I’ve heard people say it, I should know you don’t have real feelings for me!” 

Geralt opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but absolutely nothing came out. Instead, the muscles in his face hardened. He stepped back, his hands clenched in fists by his sides. Those shining golden eyes flicked away from Jaskier, down to the ground, where he stared as though corner of the floorboard was the most interesting thing in the world. And Jaskier realized, with a weight that nearly dropped him to his knees, that he’d been right all these years. Witchers had feelings, _of course they did_ , and Jaskier’d just gone and run his mouth and hurt Geralt’s. 

“It’s not…” Jaskier swallowed. “You’re not having a go at me, are you?” 

Geralt bared his teeth, very obviously hurt. “No." 

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed, wondering how on earth he could rectify this horrible situation. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I make quips all the time. You’ve never shown interest, not once.”

“Hm,” Geralt rumbled. He began to spread out his blankets again, and Jaskier rushed forward. He grasped Geralt’s face in his hands and tugged him forward, trying to meet his gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. The witcher refused to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for what I said. Of course you have feelings, I’ve always known you did. I’m an idiot, an absolute buffoon.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunted, but his tone conveyed that it was, most definitely, not fine. “You don’t want me. It’s hardly unexpected.” 

“Ohhhhhh, but I do!” Jaskier pranced backwards a few steps, then returned promptly to the witcher. If Geralt had his armor on and this were a very different situation, Jaskier would have hit him to get his attention, but he wasn’t about to smack an angry witcher. “I really, really, really, really do-” 

“And that’s what I meant by never shutting the fuck up.”

“No, Geralt, you don’t _understand_! Why the fuck do you think I wanted to talk to you in the first place, all those years ago? I’ll give you a big fat hint! It definitely wasn’t your reputation for kindness or conversation!”

Jaskier was at a loss for how else to express the witcher exactly how much he wanted to take back his dumb words, so he did the only thing that made sense -- he reached a hand around the witcher’s shoulders and set his fingers at the base of his neck, using all of his (albeit) lesser strength to tug Geralt’s face to him. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s lips. It was awkward and rather uncoordinated. He’d done much better work. But it was a kiss, at least. 

Geralt finally looked up. His golden eyes were like fire, burning with something that looked unbelievably like desire. Jaskier waited, holding his breath. And then Geralt raised one corner of his mouth in a tiny smirk and surged forward. 

This time, the witcher wasn’t gentle. Geralt’s lips pressed against Jaskier’s with bruising strength. The witcher’s mouth was unforgiving, his jaw like stone, and _gods_ , whatever Geralt was doing with his tongue was addicting, the way he moved it against all of the sensitive parts of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier gasped and slid his hand up to Geralt’s head, grabbing a handful of silky white hair and pulling it, hard. Geralt groaned, a sound low in his throat, and Jaskier thought it was the hottest thing he’d ever heard. 

With his other hand, Jaskier cradled the larger man’s jaw, feeling his stubble beneath his fingers. Geralt bent down, sucking kisses along Jaskier’s jaw, his lips finding the hidden places on his neck that made him shiver. Every touch sent sparks through Jaskier’s whole body, his arms and legs tingling. Geralt’s hand wandered above his collarbones, across his chest and then down his stomach. Geralt brushed the front of Jaskier’s trousers with the back of his hand and gods, Jaskier was already hard, his cock straining against the front of his trousers. The witcher let out a low chuckle, and then both hands crossed Jaskier’s hips and grabbed his arse, pulling Jaskier against his chest. With a moan, Jaskier felt the length of the witcher’s arousal hard against his hip. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, moving his hand from the witcher’s hair down across his shoulders. He leaned in and pressed his lips feverently to Geralt’s neck, then his chest, tracing the path of his bare skin until he reached fabric. With both hands Jaskier grabbed the witcher’s shirt and tugged on it. “This has got to come off,” he said breathlessly. 

“Uh-uh,” Geralt chastised him, clucking his tongue in disapproval. He pulled back so that his lips barely brushed the tip of Jaskier’s nose. Jaskier looked up at him, the beginning of a protest on his face, and the witcher shushed him. “You order me around enough as it is. For once in your life, _shut up_.”

Jaskier condeeded as Geralt clutched his arse with both hands and lifted him up, settling the bard on his hips with a grunt. Jaskier put both hands around his neck, one twisted in his hair and the other grasping at the back of the witcher’s shirt. Geralt slammed Jaskier into the wall behind them, knocking the breath out of him. Jaskier rolled his hips and pressed his erection against Geralt’s stomach. In response, the witcher took his skin between his teeth, nipping down his neck. He let go of the bard’s legs, pushing him against the wall with his hips, and pulled Jaskier’s shirt untucked from his trousers. Geralt yanked it off above his head, and for a moment Jaskier was hit with a dizzying lack of confidence. He could run from monsters and he could play his lute, sure, but he wasn’t ripped like Geralt was. What if he didn’t meet expectations?

The witcher’s eyes drifted slowly down his chest, taking in every inch of him. His fingers skimmed Jackier’s skin, tracing around his nipples and the tiny indentations between his ribs. And then Geralt smiled, a genuine one, for the first _godsdamned_ time. Jaskier reached out for the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt took the hint, pulling it off easily. His white hair was mussed, but Jaskier didn’t care. He watched the witcher’s bare chest rise and fall, his breaths heavy, still not believing any of this was actually happening. 

“Geralt-” he tried to say, but the witcher grimaced and kissed him again. He lifted Jaskier away from the wall, his arms encircling the bard, and walked them both over to the bed. Geralt put him down with a surprising amount of care, lowering his lips to the pale skin of Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier squirmed, moaning, desperately wanting them both to lose their trousers. He sat up and reached down toward Geralt’s hips, and the witcher pushed him back, one giant hand on his chest. When Jaskier tried again, Geralt moved like lightning. Callused palms encircled his wrists, his grip unyielding steel. Geralt pressed his arms above his head and squeezed. 

“Stay,” he commanded, his voice low and gravelly. Jaskier whimpered. 

Geralt set to work on the laces of his own trousers, shucking them off without regard. When Jaskier saw Geralt’s cock, long and hard and glistening with precome, a groan of desire escaped him. Jaskier had seen him naked before, of course -- “not friend” perks -- but like this he was _glorious_. The witcher flicked open the first button of Jaskier’s trousers, then seemed to think better of it and instead crawled on top of him. Geralt kissed him, long and slow, and then rolled his hips. Jaskier felt his erection against his leg, the heat of him, and groaned again. Geralt caught the bard’s lower lip between his teeth. 

“For the love of-” Jaskier whimpered, and Geralt chuckled. Jaskier found that he loved the sound. “ _Please_ , Geralt-”

The witcher took pity on him. Geralt sat at the edge of the bed, popping open the second button on his trousers, and then the third. Jaskier lifted his hips and watched Geralt tug them off _way too fucking slowly_. The witcher lowered himself to the floor at the edge of the bed and lifted Jaskier’s legs so that they rested across his broad shoulders. _Shit_. He gripped the bedsheets as Geralt took a long look at his cock, eyebrows raised. He leaned forward and flicked his tongue across the head. Jaskier felt the warm wetness of his tongue, the hot puffs of breath on his balls. 

Geralt took him then, sliding his lips down the length of Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier groaned and bucked his hips slightly. Geralt moved his tongue and bobbed his head up and down, and the sensation of it on his aching cock was almost too much for the little self control Jaskier had. He didn’t want to come so easily, but gods, Geralt knew what he was doing. There was absolutely no way this was his first time with a man, and Jaskier was in no position to judge but he was certainly glad of it. 

Geralt’s callused hands wandered across Jaskier’s stomach, tracing patterns on his skin as he fucked the bard with his mouth. He pinched the bard’s nipple between his fingers. Jaskier’s moans became higher and higher, before Geralt extracted himself. 

“Oil,” Geralt said, his voice rumbling, the vibrations traveling through Jaskier like an earthquake. 

“Wh-what?” 

“The chamomile oil,” the witcher repeated. He nipped the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. “Where is it?” 

“Ahh… right pocket.” The witcher stood and strode across the room, rummaging inside Jaskier’s bag until he found his prize. He was all muscle, the lines of his chest as distinct and beautiful as the curve of his arse. He returned to the foot of the bed and uncorked the bottle, coating his fingers in the slick, fragrant oil. 

“On your stomach, Jaskier.” Jaskier was positively embarrassed by how quickly he followed the command. Geralt spread his legs apart and licked his entrance, coaxing Jaskier’s coiled muscles to relax. Jaskier breathed into the pillow, his legs shaking. Geralt knew something of pleasure, he now realized. Better late than never.

After a couple of minutes, Geralt circled his entrance with one finger and then pressed gently in, moving his finger in and out, setting a steady rhythm. Jaskier groaned into his pillow. The more he moved, the more relaxed Jaskier became, until Geralt was able to slide in a second finger. The stretch of it was uncomfortable at first, but not painful, and after Jaskier’s initial tensing, he relaxed again. Geralt searched for the spot inside Jaskier that could light him on fire with one touch. His fingers finally brushed it, and set him on fire it _did_. 

“Ahh,” he groaned, biting down on his arm. “I’m not going to last if you do that-” 

Geralt slowly removed his fingers, giving Jaskier time to adjust to the emptiness. Large hands gripped his waist hard enough to bruise, and Geralt flipped him over. The thrill of being handled so roughly didn’t help Jaskier’s arousal. The witcher settled himself on his back against the headboard, and then tugged Jaskier until he was straddling him. Geralt uncorked the bottle and drizzled oil on his fingers again. Then he touched himself for the first time, stroking his cock with his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Let me,” Jaskier whispered. He pressed his forehead against Geralt’s, settling into his lap. With one hand he rubbed the witcher’s palm, spreading some of the oil on himself. Then he reached down and grasped Geralt’s cock, stroking him with a feather light touch. Geralt moaned deep in his throat, his golden eyes fluttering shut. He moved his own hand to Jaskier’s erection and did the same. 

Jaskier matched Geralt’s pace, applying his best effort to the task at hand. When Geralt began to breathe harder, Jaskier sped up. Geralt captured his mouth in a desperate kiss, the pressure building between them. Jaskier dug his nails into the witcher’s shoulder and then the sensation of pleasure pooled in his groin and he groaned against Geralt’s lips as he spilled his seed. Geralt threw his head back and moaned, and it only took a couple more strokes for the witcher’s cock to twitch and spasm as he came in Jaskier’s hand just moments later. 

Chest heaving, Geralt rested his hands on Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier realized with a start that the witcher was trembling. His golden eyes met Jaskier’s blue ones and he smiled again, with just the corner of his mouth. Jaskier rolled off of him and turned so that his back was against the witcher’s stomach, not caring a bit about the mess on the sheets. He pressed back into Geralt. 

“Hmm,” the witcher said thoughtfully, and wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling that blanketed Jaskier’s thoughts. “Was it everything you wished it to be?” 

“Well, you know, in the dreams you do fuck me. But I’m not complaining about any of that.”

The witcher grunted and met his eyes. “I’ll fuck you if you want, Jaskier. But not tonight.”

Satisfied, Jaskier shuffled into a comfy position. “Hey,” he said, a teasing tone creeping back into his voice. “You smiled at me, Geralt.” 

Geralt ducked his head, planted a kiss on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and smiled again against his skin. 

“Caught you,” Jaskier muttered, and settled back against his witcher to sleep.


End file.
